


catch fumble catch

by harcourt



Series: Catchverse [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Blindfolds, Comfort, I wrote this for the kinkmeme, M/M, Painplay, Restraints, Safewords, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 18:24:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1658057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harcourt/pseuds/harcourt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>For <a href="http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/15292.html?thread=34198460#t34198460">this prompt</a>, where Clint uses his safeword, then panics.</i>
</p><p>In which Steve's had shopping adventures that Clint wants to hear all about later, and has plans for the afternoon that don't quite work out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	catch fumble catch

Steve's got some fancy new cuffs. They're soft leather, the fittings--buckles and D-rings--solid and well made. There's a definite weight to them that isn't at all unpleasant and the clip that comes with them opens and closes smoothly when Clint tries it. They look and even smell expensive. Like the inside of Clint's favorite jacket--stolen from Tony, who hadn't even noticed its loss, the overpaid ass. Imagining Steve looking for and purchasing them makes him smile and he grins when Steve takes the clip out of his hands and lets Steve use it to fix his wrists together behind his back.

"Every time I see you mousing now," Clint says, "it's gonna turn me on."

"Who says I bought them on the computer?" Steve asks, and _that's_ an even better visual. He can just imagine Steve with his artist fussiness over detail, frowning critically over sex toys.

"You went to a real live store? Did you have a shopping basket?" Clint asks, testing the give. There isn't very much and that's--taking the smart aleck right out of him. Or would, if he had less determination. "Or did you take that canvas thing Nat gave you so you could help save seabirds from plastic bags?" He sounds a little too breathless for the banter to be convincing. "You still have your shirt. That's pretty unfair."

Steve tips him over backwards so his arms are pinned by his weight as well as the cuffs, and yanks his jeans off, and whatever Clint was going to say next is suddenly just gone. He manages an "Uh," in its place and the chuckle he gets back from Steve is dark, but in a way that makes Clint's stomach turn over with an excited, apprehensive feeling he can't untangle and doesn't really want to.

"Good," Steve says, "I was starting to think I was going to have get the gag out."

"You don't want to know," Clint says, and has to stop to lick his lips. His right index finger is getting kind of smushed and he has to arch his back to adjust his hands. "What I think? About things? And stuff?"

Steve makes a thoughtful noise and drags Clint's underwear down his legs and off, then tosses them absently the same way his clothes had gone. "Not really," he decides, but that's not really an order to keep quiet.

"What if it's good stuff?" Clint asks, and twists onto his side to kiss whatever he can reach, which is only Steve's knee, but Steve probably gets his point. "About you? And your new found shopping skills?" Steve rolls him back and pins him easily, his hand set high on Clint's chest, close enough to his throat to hint at threat, but not close enough that it _is_ one, even if Clint wouldn't have exactly minded.

"You don't even know what else I bought yet," Steve says, sounding even rather than amused and he's got a point.

Clint says, "Oh. Right. Review later, then?" and lifts his head, trying to see what Steve's doing, which seems to be not much more than just sitting there, looking down at him. His hand feels heavy where it rests, until he moves it to touch Clint's throat, and then his jaw, tipping his chin up and away until he can't see Steve anymore.

"Close your eyes," Steve says, and gives him a few seconds before repeating it. New things and _close your eyes_ makes a nervy tension coil in Clint's belly. Hot and anxious at the same time. He closes his eyes, then opens them again when he feels Steve's hand move, then closes them again. Then jerks and opens them _again_ when something brushes his face, but it stays dark and he thrashes, tossing his head until Steve pins it to the mattress in firm warning, holding him there until Clint gets the hint and lets the blindfold be tied on.

Steve gives him a minute, stroking his hair, touching his face, but then he moves and is gone, his weight lifting off the edge of the bed. He moves quietly. Clint can barely hear the whisper of his feet on the floor or the rustle of--something. Steve's clothes, maybe. Or maybe he's getting something out of his bag. A canvas backpack had been slouched against the wall when Clint had come in, and it's just like Steve to hide something devious somewhere where he'd cluelessly walk past it dozens of times. 

Then there's the smooth clack of a door handle, and then the room seems emptier. 

"Steve?" Clint tries, and gets nothing. He takes a breath. Counts to ten. "Steve!"

"Wait." Steve's voice is muffled. It sounds like he's in the bathroom and Clint relaxes again, grinning to himself. He hears water run and then the door again and Steve setting something down. 

He strains to follow Steve's progress around the room, but the bed dipping again still makes him suck his breath in. He tries to think of something to say to cover it, but comes up with one big blank. His mental power is all focused on Steve, on where he is, what he's doing, what he went to get, what he's going to do and what _with_. He's hard just from thinking about it, and he can hear Steve's amused chuckle as he moves across the bed then stops and pushes Clint's legs apart. 

He tries to fight it, just to make Steve do some work, but there's not much he can do to actually slow Steve down so all he gets for his trouble is a sharp smack to the inside of his thigh. It takes him by surprise, because Steve's been pretty easy going tonight, but he must be changing gears because as soon as he gets Clint's legs pulled wide he lands a hit to the other side.

Clint doesn't like to examine too closely why _that_ settles him down, but he relaxes and stays still until Steve is settled between his knees and-- _fuck_ \--dragging him down the bed until his hips are settled on Steve's lap. He bends his knees and lets his legs fall further open and tries to get some weight off his arms so he can re-arrange them under him.

Steve strokes his thigh, where he'd hit it, almost but not quite soothing, but lets him arch his back and squirm, like he doesn't give a shit what Clint wants to do, which is pretty reasonable, considering he can _make_ Clint do what he wants, when it gets right down to it. He doesn't even hold Clint down when he positions something against his hole. It's cold and blunt, and Clint hears himself take a ragged breath and then another, waiting for Steve to say something. Give him some sort of warning or explanation.

Steve doesn't. He just pushes the thing in, slow and steady, with no prep, and Clint freezes, his body confused between the discomfort of lying on his arms, and _this_. It hurts, even though he distantly realizes that Steve's used enough lube that his fingers are wet and a little cold where he's pushing Clint's thigh down.

"Oh god," Clint chokes, and struggles, not sure where he's going. Mostly just tossing his head around, trying-not-trying to dislodge the blindfold.

Steve's not taking any pressure off the thing, forcing it into him, forcing him to take it even though he's tensing around it, reflexively trying to push it out or at least stop the intrusion. It feels huge and like there's no end to the length Steve's going to force into him, and he's babbling pleas before it's even seated. He tries to bring his legs together, to block Steve's efforts, but Steve just shifts both of them, then somehow, there's a weight on his other leg and between that and Steve's hand on the opposite thigh, he's forced wide again.

There's nothing to do then, but to try to relax and take it, but the slow, steady progress of the thing into his body still feels like invasion. It's too fast a progression from easy joking and conversation to _this_ , and the sense of helplessness is almost overwhelming. He's panting and making little choking noises when Steve finally stops and leans over to kiss his face under the blindfold, making soothing noises even as his fingers are playing at the base of the thing, now and then pressing just slightly into Clint alongside it, making him shudder.

"Relax," Steve says, in a soothing voice, "Or this will hurt more. Shh." He can probably feel that Clint's still reflexively fighting the thing, but he starts to slide it back out and even though he knows Steve isn't taking it away, Clint can't help but sigh gratefully, slumping in relief when there's nothing left inside him and his hole can spasm shut. 

He knows it's coming. Can feel his heart start to thump in anticipation, but Steve pushing the thing back in turns his relieved sounds into frantic whines and then shouts that he tries to choke off and mostly fails to until Steve's dragging the thing back out of him again, leaving him making hitching, breathy noises, wide-eyed behind the blindfold, barely registering the soft tone of Steve's voice, the sympathetic murmur as he starts forcing Clint's body open again, with no time to adjust to the stretch when the toy is fully in him or the absence when Steve pulls it out.

This time, there's a longer pause. Clint can feel Steve's eyes on him, can feel the toy still pressing against him, promising another round, letting him tighten enough so that the merciless press of it is shocking all over again.

Steve making gentle noises and doing this is turning him into a confused mess. He's arching up and away, trying to escape, trying to make the thing slide more easily, trying to show Steve that he's so _so_ fine with this, with anything Steve wants to give him, and god. Steve's low, "You're doing fine,"s and, "It's okay,"s and sympathetic, "I know, Clint,"s--like he wishes he didn't have to hurt him--go straight to his gut until he wants to please Steve so bad it almost hurts more than the hard toy sliding unforgivingly back into him.

"Could--Could do this all day for you," Clint tells him, and it's not even a lie. He's still fighting and Steve's still having to hold him in place, but he's willing to be _made_ to take this. Willing to let Steve invade him with toys and _fuck_. Anything. Just--

The invasion ends and starts again. There's nothing he can do about it but clench in resistance, then, when that fails, try to will his body open in acceptance, until that fails too, and all that's left is to toss his head and arch his back and sob a confused garble of pleading and protest and then, finally, to slump in defeat and feel his body be forced open then allowed to close. All of it out of his control.

It takes forever until he's loosened up enough that the slide in gets easy, but just as _hurt_ starts to turn into heat in the pit of his belly, the toy is gone, replaced by exploratory fingers. Steve prodding and testing his stretch. Spreading fingers inside of him, stroking his rim, and it's not painful or even anything too unusual, but every touch is making him feel exposed and flayed open. 

There's cool against, and then inside him, and Clint bucks before realizing that it's just lube. That Steve's prepping him for whatever's coming next.

There's a second of nothing, and then another and another and that's probably Steve giving him a breather, but the break is just giving him time to really focus on the darkness inside the blindfold and on the not knowing. 

He twitches as Steve's weight comes off his thigh, leaving only his hand, warmed to the temperature of Clint's skin and stroking lightly. 

If Steve would just get on with things, he'd probably be fine. Even something difficult would be better than the pit that's suddenly opening up around him, quiet and dark, the sense of helplessness turning from a conquerable challenge to something that twists sickly in his stomach and when Steve moves--maybe reaching for something, maybe just adjusting his weight--Clint's ears fill with a rush.

It takes a moment to realize he's panicking and a moment more to realize that Steve might not know. Might take his sudden bucking as part of the game they'd been playing, or just Clint's reflexes kicking in. 

It takes a long, long, moment to get from that to remembering he has what's as good as a panic button. A word. He's never used it. It takes too long now to shuffle through his mind to find it, and it's stupid because he's still aware that he's with Steve, and perfectly safe, and he's had a cooler head while crashing quinjets, and--

And Steve's pulling him up even as his mouth forms itself around the right syllables, fumbling them out. 

"I know. I know." Steve's voice sounds a bit too distant for the way his arms are around Clint, steadying him while he works the clip. He's right there. Close enough that the side of his jaw brushes against Clint's head as he talks. "I've got you. Hold a bit still, okay?"

He hadn't realized he was still trying to twist free and makes himself calm down. Nods against Steve's shoulder. Then swallows and says, "Blindfold, first. Steve. Get it--"

His head jerks sharply, and there's sharp pinpricks of pain--strands of hair caught up in the knot and getting yanked in the hurry--but then the dark is gone and Steve is throwing a strip of heavy fabric away, off the side of the bed.

"Okay?" Steve doesn't wait for a response before going back to the cuffs, and now that Clint can see, the noise in his ears is going, draining out of his head like water from a tub. Letting him hold still for the second it takes for Steve to release the clip holding his cuffs together.

There's relief for about two seconds, and then the restored _flight_ option sends another rush of adrenaline through him, instincts screaming at him to run, to get away. He gets his hands on Steve's shoulders, but before he can even try to shove, Steve's hands are off him and he's moving back, making space, murmuring, "You're okay, Clint. You're fine."

"I gotta-- I need to--" He's not sure what. Just--

He has to get away from Steve.

It's barely a thought before he's bolting. Heading for the door to the hall and the elevator, before he remembers he's not wearing anything aside from Steve's cuffs and ends up slamming last-second into the closet off Steve's living room.

It's mostly empty, but it's dark and there's no lock. And the door opens outward. Clint puts his back against it anyway, listening to his breath rasp harshly in and out, too loud in the small space.

Trapped. He's made himself trapped. He can hear Steve's footsteps on the floor outside, getting closer, and it's fucking stupid to be closing his eyes and bracing for the door to be yanked open. He's having some kind of overlapping sense memory thing. He should have bolted for the bathroom. That might have helped.

"Clint?"

"Don't come in."

Steve's just on the other side of the door. Clint can see his shadow, flickering at the base of the door as he moves, left, then right, shifting his weight. Shuffling uneasily.

"Are you okay?"

Clint says, "Yeah," automatically, then swallows and takes actual stock of himself. He's got lube running down one leg and smeared over both thighs and the evidence of how careful Steve had _actually_ been is--gross, now, a little, but also reminds him that it's _Steve_ on the other side of the door. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"Alright. Good."

The gentle, patient tone in Steve's voice makes Clint realize that _he_ still sounds breathless and unsteady. And shutting himself in Steve's damn hall closet probably isn't making Steve feel any better about things. "So much for all day, huh?" he jokes, putting his back to the door and sliding till his butt hits the floor.

"Short day," Steve agrees, lightly, then asks, "Want me to turn the light on in there?"

"I can see."

"Okay." A pause. He can hear Steve shifting around. "Don't go anywhere. I'm getting you something to drink. I'll be right back."

"I don't need a drink."

Steve's huff is tinged with either amusement or exasperation. Clint's not reading anything too good just at the moment, but he's at least pretty sure that Steve's doesn't sound pissed off or annoyed.

"It's just in the bedroom. Count to twenty. I'll be back before you're done."

It's like Steve's trying to talk him down on comms, and that's kind of funny but also embarrassing, considering where he's barricaded and why. "Fine," Clint says, knowing Steve will hear even if he's not managing to get any volume into his voice. "Fine."

"One," Steve prompts, a little further away now. 

Clint snorts, but echoes, "One," then, "Two," hearing Steve call back as he moves, voice getting distant and muffled, then clearing again sometime around _fourteen_. Clint hadn't kept up, just listening instead, using Steve's count to track his progress away and back.

There's a knock, very soft and above his head. Like Steve's tapping with the pads of his fingers instead of his knuckles, and then a low, "Still there?"

"Yeah."

"Can I--?"

He'd though he was mostly calmed down, so the spike of alarm takes him by surprise. He's still catching his breath when Steve finishes with "--just push it through?"

"What?"

Steve patiently repeats, "Is it okay if I open the door enough to push this through?"

"Don't come in."

"I won't." 

The handle turns. Clint swallows, then tenses as the door disappears, swinging out, no longer pressing against his back. A stripe of light falls across the floor and the back wall. It's a decently large closet, at least. 

"Hey." Steve's voice is close, low down at about Clint's level now. The door's only open a few inches, but Steve's taking the opportunity to get a look at him as he reaches a plastic cup, complete with bendy straw, through the gap. "It's juice. Take it slow."

It's at about room temperature. Just barely cool. Steve must have prepared it earlier, then gone to get it to set by the bed after the blindfold had first gone on. During those minutes he'd left Clint alone. 

And now Clint had screwed up everything he'd planned so carefully.

"Sorry."

Steve huffs again, and there's a dull thunk as he leans his head a little too heavily against the wall, next to the closet door. Sitting just close enough that Clint can see a hand and a bit of his leg, but not close enough to make Clint feel crowded or trapped. "Are you hurt?"

He's not. He's a bit sore, but it's not bad. He's mostly just shaky and wrung out, coming slowly back to a more level state, but also getting cold now that the adrenaline is fading from his system, shivering harder than he should be, considering the apartment's pretty warm.

"Clint?"

"I'm not hurt. I'm okay."

"Alright. Let me know if you want anything. I'll be right here."

The door's still open. Steve trying to keep a sight-line between them, maybe, and Clint can't exactly blame him. "Sorry about the freak out."

This time the sound Steve makes is definitely a laugh, and Clint's tracking better now, because he can tell that it's friendly. A little rueful, like Steve maybe thinks that the fuck-up is on him. That _he's_ done something wrong. "That's okay." 

Close by and with the door open, Steve sounds almost too loud even though he's keeping his voice low and even. Clint scoots over a bit, to lean against the wall now that the door's open and no longer a good prop, and to look out at Steve from. From the new angle, he can catch a bit of Steve's face, but keeps back, avoiding eye contact. The idea of seeing Steve--of Steve seeing _him_ \--is still distressing. And that's kind of bizarre, especially considering how the idea of Steve _leaving_ is also distressing. Clint's hide and evade instinct is in ludicrous full gear, but Steve's still Steve, and Clint might not be entirely back from the twilight zone where anything Steve might want to do to him is amazing and great and fucking awesome, so long as it's Steve and he's _there_ , wanting Clint, but-- 

"My jacket's in there," Steve's says, "If you're cold. Or I can reach your jeans through."

Clint shakes himself out of it and considers, then opts for the jacket. Mostly because he wouldn't need to get up to pull it on, but also because he'd rather Steve not reach _anything_ towards him. Just for another minute or so. 

The jacket slides easily off its hook when he tugs it, heavy and soft and smelling of leather and of Steve, and Clint can't get into it quick enough. Clumsy and cold and suddenly aware of being vulnerably naked. His cuffs catch in the sleeves a little too much to shove his arms through easily, so after some effort, it seems easier to pull it around his shoulders like a blanket.

"Are you drinking?" Steve asks, when he's settled back down. 

Clint does. Says, "Yeah."

"Feeling any better yet?"

Not just yet. Clint drops his face against his arms, knees drawn up and says, "Yeah," again.

"Let me open the door some more?"

That takes a second longer, but it's sort of stupid to hide from Steve while also taking comfort in the way his jacket smells of him, so Clint says, "Sure," and tries not to twitch too much as the door swings out a few more inches and Steve leans forward to get a better look at him.

"Hi there." He looks friendly and charming as usual, except for a serious pinch to the corners of his eyes. The ends of his mouth. Clint pulls the jacket closer. Hunkers down into it a little.

"Back at you."

"Wanna talk?"

He doesn't, really, but there's no way around it. Only ways to delay. If he wants to keep playing the games with Steve that he _likes_ to play with Steve, then there's unavoidable talking involved. 

"Later?" Steve adds.

"Yeah."

Slowly, Steve opening the door by inches leads to Steve edging closer by inches, and then to tugging _Clint_ closer by inches, until he's tucked against Steve's side, slouched so Steve can put a shielding arm around him. 

Steve doesn't mention how the closets in the place are big, but not really big enough for two, or point out that Clint's now hiding from Steve _with_ Steve or ask what the purpose of _that_ brilliant piece of thinking is. Instead, he stays very still and quiet for a long time until Clint says, "You shopped."

"Yup."

"What else did you have planned?"

Steve smoothes his hair back. Makes a thoughtful humming noise. "It doesn't matter."

It does. His devious plotting had to have involved more than cuffs and a butt plug, or whatever it was. Steve had probably had a whole _thing_ \--a _bunch_ of things--still in the wings, that he'd probably been looking forward to springing on Clint. "I'm sorry I--" _freaked the hell out_ , "was kind of crap today."

"You were great."

"I fucking bailed on you."

He must be sounding like he's cracking again, because the cautious drape of Steve's arm around him goes tight before Steve twists to get the other arm around him as well, wrapping him in a fierce hug. "Good. _Good_. You think I--Clint, I don't want to _hurt_ you. And I don't want you to stay and _let_ yourself be hurt, either. If that ever--" Steve sighs. Loosens his hold a little. Then asks, sounding a little injured, "Did you--? Are we in here," the closet, he means, "because you thought I'd be upset you needed to stop?"

"No. I don't know." Clint snorts. Shrugs. Repeats, "I don't know. I don't think I was thinking that much."

"If you don't think it's okay to tap out, Clint--"

"I _do_. I--My brains aren't screwed in that straight, okay? You _know_ I'm a--"

"Your brains are fine," Steve interrupts, huffing a little. His hand is on Clint's face, thumb brushing firmly over his cheek, and Clint hadn't noticed tears at any point, but that's definitely a scrubbing move. Wiping away the dried traces tracking down his face. "Let's go back to bed, okay?"

"Yeah."

He should be just _done_ , after that, but trekking with Steve back across the wood floors is doing a number on him. Mostly because Steve is still dressed in t-shirt and jeans and having abandoned the jacket back on its hook means Clint's back to nothing but cuffs, obediently heading back to the chamber of tortures that is Steve's bedroom.

Except there’s light flooding in the windows--a golden afternoon glow--and the blankets are turned down, and the blindfold and toy are nowhere in sight. Steve must have done a quick tidying up job while he was getting the juice from the nightstand. All the signs of what they'd gotten up to here are gone, and that caution on Steve's part and the coziness of the bedroom makes Clint laugh at his own case of nerves. Steve smiles. Pushes him till they're both seated and kind of facing each other. 

"Let me get those off you," he says, nodding at Clint's wrists, "and then we can sleep. Or talk. Or anything you want."

Clint starts to bring his wrists up, to lay them in Steve's waiting hands, but the weight of the cuffs is nice. They really are fucking sweet, and he likes the way they look on him, and the way Steve's fingers close around them. The way his thumb strokes, absently feeling the leather, the heavy metal fixtures. "I could keep them on," Clint offers, then glances up at Steve and amends that to, "Please let me keep them." 

"Clint--" A note of warning. Not _playing_ warning, but genuine concern. Steve's probably a little worried about the roller coaster freakouts and if they're going to get going again, but Clint's fine now. Steady. 

Or steadier, anyway, with Steve there to hold him and hold him down and it's not like he's suggesting they pick up where they left off. "Just to wear," he says, flushing a little and smiling crookedly to hide his sudden embarrassment. "Just--it's nice. They're nice."

"Just the cuffs."

"Yeah." His nod is a bit too eager, and even if Steve's return smile is still cautious, he's clearly also filing away a mental recording of Clint saying _please I want to be cuffed while we sleep_.

"And you're sure you're okay?"

Steve's at least halfway to agreeing, but now that he's not panicking, Clint's also off balance, a little. Wanting something steady and firm to fall against, so he bargains, "Let me wear the cuffs, and I'll be good. Answer questions. Play backgammon. Help you criticize docudramas."

Steve doesn't leap on board, exactly, but he gets a sly glint in his eye that's probably completely out of his control. "And you'll do what you're told?"

Any other time, the deal he's striking would be a sex thing, but right now all he wants is the security. The safety net of Steve and Steve's control between him and the open pit he might still be about to nosedive into. It feels good and reassuring again, now, even though they're not so much playing as playing-at-playing. Just testing the ground to make sure it's still solid beneath them.

It's probably going to turn into a sex thing in his mind later, though. Possibly is in Steve's mind already, a little, because he's definitely enjoying Clint's trading his damn life away so he can stay in restraints. "I'll do what I'm told," Clint promises, repeating the whole thing mostly for Steve's benefit, so he'll get _something_ out of this mess, "And stay where you put me. The whole shebang."

"If you feel uncomfortable with _anything_ ," Steve warns, breaking character, serious. Clint grins, but Steve keeps looking at him, waiting for his nod, before he maneuvers them both to lie down.

There's not much to _be_ uncomfortable about. Doing what Steve tells him mostly entails letting Steve quiz him very briefly about, _it was just the wait and the blindfold and I don't -know- what happened_ , and _staying_ just means letting Steve look him over for damage, and clean him up, and follow that with kissing the bruises on his hip and on one arm, where he must have banged into something during his hasty exit. 

When he's done, Steve rolls onto him, pushing Clint's arms up over his head, before kissing his face, his mouth, gently turning his face back when Clint looks away. Hands on either side of Clint's head.

"Shh," Steve murmurs, kissing along his jaw, everything careful and slow and soft. Steve breaking only to tell him how he's great and beautiful and amazing and to let Steve take care of him, to relax. That Steve's glad he used his safeword, and happy he remembered not to bolt into the hall of Steve's apartment building in his birthday suit, and happy that Clint had decided to stay, and come back, and to let Steve make sure he's alright. 

When they wake up, Clint will have to see what Steve thinks of just clipping him to the headboard somehow and kissing him silly. Or letting Clint try to kiss _him_ silly, but for now, he settles into Steve's hands on his face, and Steve's weight half on him, and his voice promising _take care of you_ , until the last bits of tension blur away into drowsy warmth and he sleeps.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [After the Storm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2325962) by [LePeru (Nizah)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nizah/pseuds/LePeru)




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